


What Peter Does

by RaisonDetre



Series: Forever// Soulmates AU [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Nothing real sexual, Peter wolfs out, Protective Peter, Scenting, Soulmates AU, Stiles finds out Peter's pack job, Stiles is Twelve, Stiles is about to hit puberty lol, but then violence, werewolf culture in this verse is not cannon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 20:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6255043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaisonDetre/pseuds/RaisonDetre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is twelve-- but he understands. And if he doesn't-- he will try.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Peter Does

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles is twelve. 
> 
> Thanks for reading and I hope y'all enjoy. This didn't come out as I wanted it to. But it shows Peter's and Stiles's relationship well, I think.

“Peter,” Stiles snaps his fingers over the man’s face, watching as the wolf makes no move from the cellphone he’s been glued to for the last ten minutes. Stiles groans as he curls up on his side of the leather couch in a pair of joggers and a much-too-big sweatshirt Peter saved for his visits. 

 

John was hesitant to allow Stiles over at the much older were’s home, but sometimes from life’s inconveniences and Claudia’s gentle guidance, the boy would find himself spending the night at Peter’s. Most of the time, Cora would tag along, always taking the opportunity to annoy the shit out of her Uncle along with Stiles’s help. But, she was unfortunately busy with a sleepover. 

 

“Cat,” Stiles repeated seriously, bringing up the pet name that never actually disappeared from the long and extensive list of words the boy used to call Peter. 

 

If the man had been in wolf form, his ears would’ve perked up. But, he wasn’t. Instead, he turned quickly to let his blue eyes trail all over Stiles, and then to the room, when he couldn’t immediately deduce what was wrong with his mate. 

 

“I’m sorry, my darling Stiles,” he says it in the way he calls Cora and Laura ‘my darling nieces’, strictly platonic but severely devoted. “Talia believes that something rather unwelcome is on the north border,” Peter finishes, standing up to his full height and stretching up like he was preparing himself for some serious movements.

 

Stiles watches, probably staring too long, but the boy was fairly shameless when he was in the company of Peter. And, he was on the very edge of puberty; just as much as he could jerk off to pictures of models in G-strings, he could absolutely lose it from a muscle spread in some sports magazine. 

 

“Come on, sweetheart,” and Stiles grins at the name-- because Peter doesn’t call anyone else that. “I’ll be gone for an hour or so, I’ll drop you off at Derek’s.”

 

“But Peter!” Stiles’s voice goes high from the pleading, he turns himself over in the leather couch, utterly comfortable and unwilling to actually get off of his ass and make the four minute drive to Derek’s. All of the Hale houses are on the seemingly endless property, Peter lives furthest from any of them. Derek is the second most remote, he’s hardly at the peak of eighteen and he’s still four months from graduating- but he couldn’t stand living underneath his mother.

 

Cora told Stiles it’s a wolf thing. Though they’re all insanely close, wolves growing into their skin feel like they’re being constantly forced into submission if they’re living underneath an Alpha from the day they’re born through all of the years inbetween adulthood.

 

“I’m tired, can I just stay here?” Stiles asks, sugar sweet and blinking up slowly, as if he’s trying to create the effect of being unmistakably exhausted. “Please?” He continues, when Peter’s only reply is a raised eyebrow and a firm shake of the head. 

 

“There are things in these woods that would eat up a thing like you,” Peter pointed out, clearly not agreeing with Stiles’s plan. “And I’m not going to leave you all alone, especially when the safest place, aside from right beside me, is Derek’s home-- a quick drive, that we will be making. Get up and gather whatever you want to bring. Although, you won’t need much, I’ll be quick.” 

 

Stiles rolled his amber eyes, his fist moving to grip the soft blanket Peter had covered him in a few hours ago. “What is it you do anyway? For the Pack?” He implores instead of admitting defeat. 

 

“Sweet boy, you’ll know when you know,” the Hale countered with a smile. Peter bent over to lift up Stiles’s beneath the armpits, as if he was still a child who would beg to be carried around constantly-- he hadn’t grown out of that until he was eight, and only because his dad threatened his television time.

 

The boy fought for only a second, trying to keep himself rooted to the comfortable piece of furniture before Peter easily plucked him up to a standing position. Immediately, Peter’s hands went to place his worn leather jacket-- the only thing in his closet that was older than a few months-- around his young mate’s shoulder, quickly fastening the button around his pale neck to help it stay balanced. 

 

“There,” Peter smiled. “Ready to ride the weather.” 

 

Stiles didn’t need to look in the mirror to know that the ensemble was more than just ridiculous. He blinked up with wide eyes, sticking out his bottom lip into a pout that, the majority of the time, Peter couldn’t bring himself to say no to. 

 

“I don’t wanna,” Stiles’s voice cracked-- probably from puberty-- but, he let himself fall into the warm chest of the Hale. The wolf always welcomed affection, and this wasn’t any different. He stood on his tippy toes, as if that would give Peter better access to his neck, where all members of the pack routinely rubbed their own scent into Stiles’s skin. 

 

Stiles knew from being Peter’s shadow for the majority of his life that the wolf was much more agreeable to the boy’s terms when they were in close contact. The tactic was half of the reason why Stiles was as spoiled as he currently is and has always been. 

 

Peter lifted up his brows; his mouth opened as if he were about to say something with a bit of a bite, but when he fixated on Stiles’s neck, the words died on his tongue. His hands fell to clutch the boy’s shoulder, gingerly moving him until his chin was bent back and out of the way, free to allow the wolf to press his face to the perfect, pale skin of Stiles’s neck. Stiles felt it raise in irritation from Peter’s 5 o’clock shadow, but he stayed silent, enjoying the closeness until Peter breathed out, sighing as if he was sated. 

 

Peter was always gentle with him, where the rest of the Hales were naturally rough, the older wolf was careful and attentive. When the younger wolves would accidentally push bruises into his tender skin, Peter would be the one to press his own fingers over the purpleblueyellow marks and drain away the pain with something as simple as touch. When the Hales would grow too excited in scenting him, rubbing their hands and cheeks and noses into the general area of his collarbone, Peter took his time. Delicately, he’d trail his nose over the boy’s juglar as his hands moved from the tips of his shoulders from the nape of his neck to the curve of his jaw. His cheek, rough when he wouldn’t bother with shaving, rubbed his neck only until it began to tingle, leaving the skin he touched pink for the day. 

 

“Cat,” Stiles whispered, glancing up at the wolf as he pulled away slowly, making sure he didn’t leave any space on the boy’s skin devoid of his scent. “I’m reaaal tired.” 

 

“Well,” Peter smiled, his hand moving to drop beneath Stiles’s jaw. He used his pointer finger to tilt the boy’s head up by the chin. “You can sleep at Derek’s.”

 

*

 

They didn’t make it to Derek’s. Because, really. Peter always had shit luck and Stiles always had the misfortune of being at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

 

It rams into the side of Peter’s expensive sports car- but, honestly, the Hales had no business with fancy cars being ripped up by old, gravel roads- and it spins the vehicle into the nearest tree- which is about four different pines. 

 

One of Peter’s hands go flying from the steering wheel towards Stiles’s chest, because neither of them bothered with their seatbelts but the boy was the most valuable-- and fragile-- thing on board. He managed to keep him stuck to the leather seats, Stiles’s scream echoing like theme music for Peter’s worst nightmare. He could live the rest of his life before hearing the boy shriek again purely out of utter terror. 

 

“Peter?” Stiles’s chest is heaving, there is probably a bruise the shape of Peter’s handprint beneath his sweatshirt, but Peter doesn’t care. All he think of is where the thing responsible for this is. “What was that?!” Everything that made Stiles Stiles is drained out of his face, the light in his amber eyes reflect fear instead of cleverness. 

 

“Stay in the car,” Peter _commands_ with glowing eyes, a trait that Stiles hardly ever witnessed in action. The boy nods-- like he was actually going to have the courage to do anything but be frozen with fright. 

 

Peter peels the crushed door from his side in order to get out, happy that he took the majority of the damage. He doesn’t waste any time, already half-shifted when his feet plant on the soil beneath. 

 

*

 

Stiles only screams when the heavy body of _something_ lands on the crushed hood of the car, limply attempting to crawl away even though it’s practically drowning in its own blood. The moonlight is blocked by the tall trees of the forest, but from the headlights that were still turned on, something that resembled Peter stalked forward. 

 

The thing-- which isn’t just a thing, but a werewolf-- _screams_ at the sight of Peter. Stiles watches, even though his trembling hands are covering his eyes, he stares, not scared for his own life, but for the werewolf atop of the hood. 

 

Peter drags it away by the ankles, before slinging it into the tree yards in front of the sports car and plasters himself above the creature when it lands on its back. Stiles can’t see anything other than the viscous and quick swipes of Peter’s extended nails. Each movement is deliberate and causes maximum pain. 

 

When Peter bends down, his head disappears and a terrifying sound-- a mix of a last breath choking on blood and flesh being ripped from bone-- follows. It sends Stiles into a sudden explosion of movement, crawling over the driver’s seat to let himself vomit on the forest floor. He takes his hands and wraps them around his ears as the bile creeps up his throat again and again until it’s just acid.

 

And then Peter is there.

 

Stuffing himself into Stiles’s space, covered in blood, and he still looks high from the kill. Because Peter isn’t a good man by any means, just because he does right by his mate doesn’t mean he isn’t violent and cruel and angry and completely apathetic when it comes to the safety of Stiles or his pack _or Stiles_.

 

His hands are still warm and running with blood; his face hasn’t lost the expression of _wild_ \-- and _God_ , Stiles doesn’t remember if fire is red or the exact shade of Peter’s azure eyes. 

 

His fingers clasp around Stiles’s wrist, trapping him to his hold until he’s pulled up to his shaking feet. Peter is far from decent, but Stiles is use to the Hales running around naked in someway or another. 

 

The boy stares up at Peter, because he’s scared that if he looks away, the wolf might do the same thing he did to the mangled body as to him. And it’s stupid, Stiles knows so, but he can’t risk it. 

 

Peter’s hands wrap around the nape of Stiles’s neck, but it’s not rough. It’s just a reaffirming touch, an assurance knowing that his mate is beneath his bloody fingertips alive and breathing and seemingly fine. 

 

They haven’t said anything, and _Stiles doesn’t know._ He doesn’t understand. As much as he wants to push himself into Peter’s chest like he has done so many times before, he has the disgusting fear of imagining himself being ripped apart by the wolf. It makes him want to pull away. 

 

“That’s what I do, Stiles,” and his words aren’t meant to sound cruel-- but they come out that way, and Stiles cringes. Because he’s only twelve and he’s trying to make sense of the scene in front of him.

 

Peter has always been gentle and kind, and even when conflict would show, when tensions would arise, Stiles never saw him do anything more than his eyes flashing or a low growl. 

 

But watching him shred into a werewolf that seemed so much more dangerous than him-- it’s confusing, at minimum.

 

“But--” Stiles lets his words die on his lips. _He doesn’t know._ He doesn’t even have a clue of what he is was going to attempt to say. He only knows that his breath tastes like vomit and his nose is filled with the metallic tang of blood and Peter is above him, holding him up-- like always-- with all of his adrenaline pumping through his veins. 

Even though Peter committed murder, Stiles doesn’t pay attention to that. He only focuses on the bloody fingers that curl through his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and thoughts are appreciated! 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
